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PJ Franklin <firstname.lastname@example.org>
"I wish that I could be like the cool kids, 'Cause all the cool kids, they seem to fit in …” - “Cool Kids,” Echosmith, 2013
* * * * * * * * * *
All I ever wanted to do was to fit in, what boy of fifteen doesn’t? I did fit in until mom decided that dad’s promotion to full partnership at his law firm meant that now we all could just pick up and move our residence to the “respectable” side of town. Great. Dad agreed. Greater. My younger sisters were excited. I wasn’t. I was scared actually.
Being a high school freshman would have been difficult enough at what was now my old school, Marston High. You go from being at the top of the social heap in junior high school right to the bottom of the stinking pack in high school. You start over, socially that is; and until proven otherwise, you are not cool if not actually a completely useless dweeb.
Except that at Marston, I would have had friends from junior high, tons of them and we all would have gone through it together. We would find a way to fit and help each other in doing so. Now fitting in might prove very difficult. You see, my new high school Gaston Heights was the region’s rich kids school and they all looked upon the poorer school district kids as not only not cool, but not even remotely near the map of coolness.
Mom and dad argued that it would not matter. That I would make new friends, “respectable friends,” mom said. Since when was my mother such a social climber anyway? Used to be that she was happy with helping to organize simple neighborhood potlucks, yard and garage sales as well as homey church picnics. Now it was “save the poor people in far off …” fill in the blank with your favorite third world country or some highfalutin something or other foundation fund raiser with her new rich female compadres.
Don’t get me wrong. I loved our new house. It was actually new and not an old beater like our old place which now was our version of the other side of the tracks. My new bedroom was twice as big as the old one and dad even had the foresight to let me get a new bigger and very expensive flat screen T.V., a brand new bed and lots of other new stuff. Talk about snowing me into submission utilizing the teenage weakness called material possessions.
It worked too, that is until my first day of class at Gaston Heights or just “The Heights” to the insiders. I got looks as I walked and gawked at the really nice rich kids version of a school building. They were the kind of knowing looks that only a fellow teenager can give you, the kind that say “you don’t fit in, you’ll never fit in and if you even think you’re going to fit in with us, think again, useless newbie dork!”
And what gives with rich kids anyway? Why are they always so much taller and better looking and that even though we were all within a couple years of the same age? Do rich parents afford some kind of genetic fertilizer that makes their offspring grow taller and better looking than parents who don’t have as much money?
Oh, and another thing, a real embarrassing personal thing. Why do rich teenage boys seem to have bigger dicks and nicer asses than the rest of us? Because that is what I encountered utilizing unwise sidelong glances in the boys locker room on the first day of P.E. I was alone and knew nobody. The boys my age who might have wanted to be friendly avoided me seemingly on instinct alone.
Then there was Phillip Kline and Peter Simmons; two fellow freshman boys my age who saw my “deer in the headlights” look at my locker trying not to make eye contact with their beautiful naked bodies. Only they knew. Somehow they knew. Their lockers were next to each other at the end of the row and they came sauntering over and stood, naked, hands on hips daring me to look at them. I did.
“Faggot. What’s your faggot name, faggot, huh?” Phillip jeered, “Speak up shithead or do you need some encouragement!” and Peter’s palm reached out and slapped at my face. It connected and stung hard.
“Randy Burke,” I said quietly trying furiously to rub the sting out of my face, “Randy huh? No way. Now it’s Faggot Burke. Say it!” Phillip bullied with his voice alone. I felt sick to my stomach.
“He can’t say it because he’s too busy wishing he could suck our big fat dicks,” Peter sneered, “That right Faggot? Want to suck our cocks, take it up the ass?” Phillip asked the typical rhetorical bullying cliché only the facts deep, deep down were that if they had approached me in any kind of friendly way, I just might take them up on their offer.
I mean, give me a break. They were both hot, very hot and I was becoming increasingly vulnerable to my new budding sexuality. I knew I liked boys better than girls. I didn’t know why, just that it was. I mused that I could have successfully navigated through those rocky shores at Marston, but maybe not at the Heights.
“Kline! Simmons! Give it a rest, get dressed down now unless you want to check out coach’s paddle after class,” the low voice boomed from the other side of the row. I looked up, Kline and Simmons turned their heads. Talk about an Adonis and it was not the P.E. teacher, Coach Ericson. No, this was an older student that had cut in, my guess a junior or senior.
Kline and Simmons not so much replied as retreated, “Come on man, this faggot is not worth it,” Phillip mumbled to Peter and they did as told. The older boy made brief eye contact with me as if to say, “I don’t know who you are, but please stop provoking the trolls in my locker room,” or at least that was my nervous interpretation.
Speaking of paddles, apparently even the freshman rich kids at the Heights did not escape getting their bare bottoms paddled in P.E. Just after our forced exercise session that day, Coach Ericson took two beauties of not my acquaintance into his open door office for what I have no idea and gave them each three bare butt paddle swats. Should have heard them scream. Guess a rich kid’s ass is just as tender as a poor kid’s and some rich kids’ dads were not as liberal as I might have otherwise suspected.
“How was your first day?” mom smiled at me in the car on the way back home that afternoon, “It was OK,” I said with no conviction, “Just OK? Did you like the school? I thought it was much nicer than your old school,” Mom said. Since when had mom become so superficial? I thought it was the people inside that counted, not the architecture.
I just noncommittally and wordlessly shrugged a non-reply because I was way too preoccupied with my dick and the burned-in-my-brain images of the two beauties in P.E., their bare butts bent over, ankles grabbed. I could plainly see Coach turning their smugness into screams of pain, the red splotches on their butt cheeks coming up quickly as the paddle did its job very well indeed. Once we finally got home, I quickly rushed into the house from the driveway, got behind my closed bedroom door, shucked down my trousers with my underwear and barely had time to stroke my dick hardly once before I exploded a load of pent-up sperm into my palm, the orgasm washing over me like a wave of pure ecstasy.
Later that night I did it again, jerked myself off in my bed. Only this time it was not to the images of the paddled boys in P.E. This time it was to the image of Jarrod McCall. That was his name, the older junior aged guy that had verbally intimidated Phillip and Peter in the lockers. I had later that day at school found out his name and social position at The Heights. He was nearly the top of the heap and not even a senior yet.
I chewed nervously on my lower lip as I fisted my erection. I was courting theoretical danger by doing this act of mine, but didn’t care as I visualized me in P.E., naked and draped tightly over Jarrod’s muscular knees, his firmed up right palm giving me a rapid and painful spanking for no reason other than that is what he liked to do with freshman like me.
Jarrod’s free hand was doing double duty, tightly fisting my balls and stiffy and jerking on them in a way meant to “train” me that a painful spanking is the natural and necessary companion to a pleasurable masturbation,
“Thank you sir!” I yelped as I shot my load into my white tube sock way before I could complete the fantasy, Jarrod making me suck his cock or better, fuck me up my virgin butt hole just after having got me off during a very painful spanking, his sleazy seduction wonderfully conceived and masterfully completed.
* * * * * * * * * *
The poor and middle class kids and their families in neighborhoods across the land party just like the wealthy, do they not? Well, sort of. They gather together in smallish cookie cutter houses to barbecue inexpensive plastic trays of pre-cut pale chicken parts, pounds of inexpensive cut-rate high fat hamburger meat and tubes of mystery meat called hot dogs. The adults drink from red plastic cups of very cheap twelve percent domestic beers or liquor store purchased large clear plastic half gallons of inexpensive vodka mixed with cheap fruity tasting additives.
Their kids drink inexpensive generic colas, orange or other artificially colored sodas or maybe even the occasional actual name branded cans of Coca-Cola or Pepsi products. I know. I, that is we, my family, had done all of that in our sordid pasts.
Things were different now, way different. The only common cooking device between our old neighborhood block parties and our new affluent surroundings was a barbecue. We’re talking a humungously large several thousand dollar professional device requiring a college credit course completion to operate, not a one hundred and fifty dollar Weber that you can pick up at Walmart and fill with bags of lighter fluid soaked black briquettes for which the only qualification is that your are not too drunk enough to try use it and not burn yourself to death.
Now there were the penthouse gatherings with dad’s new business partners. There were mom’s hypersocially connected dinner parties. I hated those because I had to wear a suit with a tie like going to church or to a funeral. This was a dinner party for God’s sake, not a wedding! I’ll say one thing; the food was expertly catered and lip-smacking good. The beverages the same and the teenage eye candy for me, the best.
Then there were the rich kid parties, weekend teenage affairs on the warm September Friday or Saturday nights that gradually got into the cooler and crisper weekend nights of October and then into the colder holiday season weekends. Those parties were supposedly sponsored and chaperoned by responsible adults; but were actually never attended by any adult, not one I ever saw anyway.
Even a Heights freshman newbie scumbag like me and by now some of my newbie scumbag fellow Heights freshman friends got the valued invites. We’re talking mansion-sized sprawling patio based parties, backyard affairs with not one, not two, but three hot tubs next to Olympic sized heated swimming pools and a spa.
More than one party had featured a gaming room the size of my old house that featured four networked PlayStation4 or XboxOne console gaming units to have in-house Call Of Duty Advanced Warfare PvP battles. Holy cow. What incredible fun that was and often turned into competitions.
These were not wimpy, friendly competitions, but fierce battles. The losers, well, sometimes the losers had to pay embarrassing silly and harmless penalties to the winners, that is if girls happened to be at the party were involved. One night I found out what happens when the party is boys only. Yes, we had those, more often than not actually.
This wasn’t the movies after all where the makeup thick female actors are thick as thieves with their male counterparts, both devoid of sexual inhibitions and complete with a screenplay designed to maximize teenage theatre attendance to rack in the dough from both sexes. No, this was the real world and believe it or not, rich girls protected their assets very well if you know what I mean. I mean, what else would you expect from the female offspring of professional social climbing parents who conspired with them to keep the first baby with a rich husband?
This left a bunch of rich high school aged teenage boys holed up in a gaming room into the wee hours of the morning with nothing but their unrequited libidos to use as payback for the losing side of the latest console gaming battle. At a few parties you had to take shots of expensive alcohols or a hit of weed until you passed out, your body left to recover helplessly sprawled on a near-by piece of furniture.
At most others, the chemicals were limited just not the libidos. Out came the paddles, fraternity sized. Down went the pants and shorts of the losers, lined up in a row and then, kapow! Usually about three paddle licks each did the trick sending the losers howling upward from the searing pain clutching at their scorched bare backsides as the delighted onlookers hooted and howled with cackling laughter.
It happened to me one late Friday night in late September (or was it very early that next Saturday morning?). Phillip and Peter, and yes, Jarrod McCall were all at that party. Phillip and Peter and I were at a kind of ceasefire by then. They weren’t dickheads to me, but not really friends either. I got stuck in a three-on-three console firefight with them along with another pair of guys who were too drunk to really play very well. We lost.
The rule was that the losers had to bare their bottoms, bend over and take paddle licks from the winners. It mean that Phillip and Peter had me legally dead to rights. Jarrod handed the paddle to them as I bared my ass and bent over to hold onto my ankles. Peter did the honors and gave me three hard ass busting paddle licks. God it hurt! It hurt a lot and they all laughed and had a good time at the expense of my two losing partners and myself.
We three tried two more times versus Peter’s and Phillip’s team. Two more times they won. My ass was so sore after the third failure that I could not go on leaving Peter and Phillip grinning ear-to-ear at my expense and despite my secret predilections I couldn’t have sprung a hard-on if it was to save my life that is until much later.
It was maybe three AM. My ass was not as sore as my ego. I found a hot tub and like everyone else had done earlier in the evening, I skinny-dipped into it. The next thing I knew, Jarrod McCall was right next to me, “Tough night Burke,” he said. Being naked next to Jarrod was already having its way with my dick, “Yea, I sucked,” I said.
He chuckled and I felt his hand take mine and pulled it to his erection under the hot swirling froth of hot tub water. I gasped. I had never felt another guy’s hard dick before. I instantly liked it, “Do you? Suck that is?” he asked.
My eyes darted around the area surrounding the hot tub. There was nobody else in the vicinity; but this was no time to lie about my inexperience, not to Jarrod McCall anyway, “I’m a newb in that department,” I admitted and expected him to make fun of me if not get brusque.
“Want to learn?” He asked. I nodded, “Yes,” I replied, “Follow me,” he said getting out of the tub. I did, my eyes bleeding with envy at the hot, tall naked muscular body that casually walked in front of me and into the hot tub’s adjacent spa and lounge hut.
Jarrod’s ass was so attractive that I wanted him to sit on my face and force me to lick out his hole as he led us inside, “On your knees,” he said quietly. I got on my knees and faced my first eye-popping boner, “Lick it and put it in your mouth, just do your best.”
His hand gently caressed my head and face instantly turning me into his sex slave, “That’s it,” he said as I greedily turned fantasy into reality, sucking as well as I could for a first-timer on Jarrod McCall’s long hard dick.
“That’s enough!” he said pulling back after not too long, “Open your mouth,” he said, I did and Jarrod’s voice got lower and grunting, he masturbated himself into my open maw. I swallowed. My first orally ingested load was delicious. I was hooked.
“Nice,” he said, “Now how do you want to take care of yours?”
I looked down. Oh yea, I was still hard and horny as hell. The party with just boys that night had already been full of lewd remarks and activities. I had just sucked dick, why not?
“Take me over your lap and masturbate my cock while you spank the living Jesus out of me?” I boldly suggested.
He grinned, “Nice. Over here,” and held out his hand. I took it and he lifted me to standing.
A short moment later, I was tightly draped across Jarrod’s knees, his fist tightly grasping my junk and while he masturbated me, his other hand gave my naked upturned ass rapid slaps, spanks from hell, but they were a good hell. He got me off, made me lick off my own sperm from his drenched palm.
* * * * * * * * * *
"I wish that I could be like the cool kids, 'Cause all the cool kids, they seem to get it …” - “Cool Kids,” Echosmith, 2013
* * * * * * * * * *
At long last, about a month later I wasn’t the one to get it. Phillip and Peter had cornered me in the boys locker room at school and basically threatened to out me unless I did their bidding and suck them off. Here I thought all rich kids were also too clever not to get caught making such threats. Apparently not.
Jarrod McCall was listening right around the corner and offered to out Phillip and Peter to the Coach and vice principal for sexual harassment and conspiracy to commit sexual assault should they not cooperate. When they hesitated, Jarrod reminded the pair that my father was a very skilled litigator. That did the trick.
Coach Ericson magically disappeared leaving the four of us in Coach’s office; Coach’s paddle was in my fist. Phillip’s and Peter’s torsos were bent way over, hands grabbing ankles and Jarrod was standing to the side, smiling as he supervised their well-earned comeuppance.
“Ten hard ones,” I said calmly, rubbed the paddle across Phillip’s very hot looking ass, drew back and gave him ten ass busting licks. Phillip’s wealthy status did not spare him bawling like a baby as I punished him without mercy and Peter suffered the same.
Both boys were sent from the office sobbing and holding their torched backsides, “Good job,” Jarrod smiled. I sighed and looked down at myself, then up at Jarrod. We both had erections.
I decided to play it cool and closed the office door and handing the paddle to Jarrod said, “We’re not done yet,” and divesting myself of all of my clothing, turned and bent over to hold my ankles, “I want a paddling and then you decide how to get us off.”
“Nice,” Jarrod said coolly. Jarrod did not fool around and gave me ten hard licks that forced tears to stream down my otherwise grinning face. I sucked him off on my knees afterwards, pulled the jizz right out of his big hard dick and down my throat, no problem. Then we switched places and he did the same for me.
* * * * * * * * * *
A few weeks later:
I closed my book locker and turned. The hallway was as usual teeming with kids moving too and fro from class to class. Jarrod McCall walked past me, barely paid me any attention. Snob.
Phillip Kline walked up to me , “Hey Burke, nice sweater. Party at my place tomorrow night, you coming?” I nodded, “Yep,” I said casually and then we walked to an English composition class we shared together talking about how crass junior and seniors seemed to freshman and sophomores now a days. You know, just high school shit.
The party that Friday night was like all the rest, fantastic. Phillip, Peter and I beat the crap out of a team of other freshman playing Call of Duty in their gaming room as usual. We paddled their asses good and a short while later they got revenge on our loser asses.
A short while after that I found myself skinny-dipping in Phillip’s hot tub, me in the middle between him and Peter. I reached out on either side with my hands under the hot bubbly water and found two erections. I smirked, “Hmm. I’m in the mood to suck dick. Any takers?”
Oh about five minutes later, I casually got out of the hot tub, “Thanks boys. That was delicious,” and sauntered off leaving Phillip and Peter with grins on their faces to find more action somewhere else.
* * * * * * * * * *
"I wish that I could be like the cool kids …” oh wait. Fuck that. I am a cool kid. It’s no big deal.
© Copyright PJ Franklin June 28, 2015
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